


The Only Reasonable Solution

by Persiflager



Series: Reasonableness [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:05:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is helpful, Mycroft is a gentleman, and Lestrade teaches Sherlock how to suck cock like a pro.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Reasonable Solution

Sherlock flexed his fingers inside the heavy, sweat-sodden boxing gloves and squared up to the punching bag again. The ache in his muscles was of little importance compared to the satisfaction of bringing his mind’s authority to bear on his treacherous body, punching faster, harder and more accurately as he re-established the unassailability of his self-control. He rose up onto the balls of his feet, drew his arm back, and was about to swing when he heard John stomping up the stairs.

_Bugger._

Sherlock scowled, unlaced his gloves, dropped them on the floor, wiped his hands on his dressing gown and crossed the room to collapse onto the sofa. 

John had been walking heavily up the stairs and jangling his keys on the landing since three days ago, when he’d come home to find Sherlock in his underwear on the sofa being spanked by Lestrade. Which was ridiculous because, as Sherlock had later explained in convincing and irrefutable detail, that had been necessary for a case and there was absolutely no chance of John interrupting some sort of sexual scenario (even if there had been certain unintended physiological consequences).

Even if Sherlock was interested in that sort of thing (which he wasn’t), and even if he was interested in doing it with Lestrade (which he _definitely_ wasn’t), he was 85% certain that Lestrade was irredeemably heterosexual and 100% certain that he’d be Lestrade’s last choice for any mid-life experimentation.

John finally finished unlocking the door and let himself into the flat. From his supine position on the sofa Sherlock listened to John walk into the living room and pause when he saw the newly installed free-standing punching bag.

“So, how was your day?” asked John. “There is a gym round the corner, you know.”

Sherlock ignored the non sequitur. “Unimaginably tedious.”

“Mine was fine, thanks for asking,” said John without rancour as he wandered through to the kitchen.

Sherlock listened to the sounds John made as he moved around the kitchen putting the shopping away. There was a screech of a kitchen chair being pulled across the floor before John climbed up and opened a cupboard (ah good, he’d picked up more rubber gloves), the swing of the fridge door (milk), the thunk of the bread bin cover (fresh loaf), a creak from the cupboard under the sink (cleaning spray, judging by the faint sigh), and the rustle of John’s jacket pocket (condoms and unjustified optimism).

The rush of water as John filled the kettle told Sherlock that no other food was forthcoming. Interesting – John had shown a marked aversion to take-away recently (citing financial and health reasons) and usually cooked during the week. So, unexpected dinner plans plus condoms meant a date, and the lack of whistling as John had come up the stairs meant that he didn’t have high hopes.

“I can spot the lies in an online dating profile with 95% accuracy,” offered Sherlock.

“Thanks but no,” called John as the kettle clicked off, “I like to preserve a bit of mystery.”

“And what about Mycroft?”

The spoon clinking stopped for a moment before John resumed his tea-making. Not an entirely surprising reaction, given that this was the first time that either of them had referred out loud to the fact that he’d shagged Sherlock’s brother in a hospital cupboard eight days ago. “What about him?”

“Aren’t you concerned that his … _feelings_ … might be hurt?” asked Sherlock, waving one hand vaguely. “You can’t possibly imagine that he won’t find out.”

John brought the tea through to the living room, set Sherlock’s mug on the coffee table and sat down in his armchair before replying. “That,” he said cautiously, “was very much a one-off. Just a casual thing. No commitment.”

Sherlock decided against mentioning that, to his extensive knowledge, Mycroft hadn’t done anything casually in his life; they might now be equal in the flatmate discomfiture stakes, but there was no reason to encourage any more fraternising with the enemy.

“So, how’s Greg?” asked John, blowing on his tea.

“Who?”

“Lestrade.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock. “Wouldn’t know. Hasn’t called.”

“You could call him,” said John, taking a sip of too-hot tea and wincing.

Sherlock rolled over and frowned at John. “Why would I do that? There haven’t been any murders here. Well, not yet.”

John ignored the last part of that sentence. “You’re talking about work.”

“Of course,” said Sherlock, letting the ‘you idiot’ go unspoken for once. “What else would we be talking about?”

John glanced down at the sofa Sherlock was lying on. Sherlock’s mouth narrowed.

“For. A. Case,“ he said, glaring for emphasis.

John took the hint and retreated to his room. Sherlock spent a blissfully silent hour contemplating alternative outlets for his excess physical energy before John marched back into the living room in an outfit that was probably meant to be smart and cleared his throat.

“So,” he said in a serious tone, “I know this isn’t really your area, so I’m going to help you out.”

“Oh god,” Sherlock groaned. “Please don’t.” He sat up and was disturbed to see that John looked very calm. “You look like you’re about to shoot someone.”

“Don’t tempt me,” John said, and took a deep breath. “Right. Three things. First, I happen to know that Greg’s at home tonight with a take-away and a pile of paperwork and would probably welcome some company. Second, I do slightly feel that I should give you ‘the talk’ but you seem to know a frankly terrifying amount about sex for someone who never seems to have any so I won’t, if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock blinked and sat up with a slightly worried look. “John-“

“Third,” said John, waving a finger at Sherlock, “and most important. Do not, under any circumstances, mention his ex-wife. Not even by implication. Especially, and I really can’t stress this enough, their sex-life.” He thought for a moment. “Or lack of it. Good luck.”

Sherlock stared at John.

“You’re trying to encourage some sort of relationship between myself and Lestrade. Why?”

John shrugged. “I like Greg. And maybe if you have a love-life of your own then you’ll stop interfering in mine.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “But that’s not all. You have some expectation of success.”

John grinned in a revoltingly smug fashion.

“ _John_.”

“ _Fine_. He stares at your arse when you’re not looking.”

It was the most extraordinary thing, but Sherlock would have sworn that he could feel the warmth of a blush making its way across his face.  
“Why didn’t you mention it before?”

“I thought you knew,” said John. “Don’t worry, I won’t put this one on the blog. He does check mine out too, occasionally, by the way.”

Just for that, Sherlock didn’t point out that John’s flies were undone.

…………………………….

John whistled as he jogged down the front steps. It was odds on that Sherlock would be on his way to Greg’s flat within the hour, which meant that John was one step closer to being able to legitimately start calling himself ‘the love doctor’.

_Which means hello, potentially lucrative new expansion of the blog into dating advice. I could start it off gradually – maybe have a Flirty Friday post? Would probably go down better than Marksmanship Monday did._

He’d just turned off Baker Street when a large black car purred alongside him. It paused when he did and one of the tinted windows wound down. John sighed, ran a hand through his hair and bent down to peer in.

“Hello,” he said. Once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness he could make out Mycroft himself sitting on the far side of the car, his legs crossed primly at the knee.

“Good evening,” said Mycroft, serenely ignoring the honks of traffic forced to go around him. 

“I’ve got plans,” said John apologetically. “Maybe you could kidnap me tomorrow?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft, brushing some invisible fluff off his knee. “I was rather hoping that I could persuade you to change them.”

“Why?” asked John, returning a bus-driver’s rude gesture with the hand that he wasn’t using to lean against Mycroft’s ridiculous car.

Mycroft looked up at John. “Because I should very much enjoy your company,” he said simply before patting the seat beside him in an inviting manner, “And because I find myself in a state of unspeakable jealousy. It’s terribly distracting; I’ve barely been able to work all day.”

“Sorry about that,” said John automatically. “Jealous of who?”

Mycroft’s smile flashed shark-like in the dim light. “Jealous of ‘whom’. And you, of course. Our encounter at the hospital merely whetted my appetite. I’m afraid I’ve been too busy lately to give the matter the attention it deserves but rest assured that I have been thinking of you.”

John was flattered and more than a little tempted but even his sense of self-preservation kicked in occasionally. He was about to decline politely when it occurred to him that Mycroft had waited until they were out of view of the flat before stopping him, which meant that, whatever this was, it wasn’t entirely about Sherlock.

“Oh, why not?” he muttered before opening the door and sliding in. The car drove off with a smooth rumble as he fastened his seatbelt and he ignored Mycroft while he pulled out his phone and sent a brief text to his unfortunate date.

“Have you been stalking me?” he asked.

Mycroft hummed. “Define stalking.”

John decided to let that one go. “I hope you don’t think I’m easy, by the way.”

Mycroft laughed. “On the contrary,” he said, uncrossing his legs. “I have every hope that the opposite will prove to be true this evening.”

................................

Greg sat on his sofa in vest and trousers looking at the pile of case files on the coffee table, next to the remains of the horrible Chinese take-away he’d had for dinner, and gave in to self-pity.

He’d run out of nicotine patches and not had time to buy more. He’d spent the past three hours reviewing the files of unsolved crimes and finding new ways to blame himself for each failure. He’d realised when he put the beers in the fridge that he’d once again forgotten to pick up milk and would be drinking his tea black in the morning. It was now six months to the day since his divorce had been finalised and, to add insult to some pretty legitimate injuries, he hadn’t even been able to have a wank without thinking of Sherlock’s firm arse beneath his hand. 

Greg groaned and rubbed his face. It had been years since he’d given a bloke more than a passing glance (he was (mostly) straight, he wasn’t _blind_ ) and for it to be Sherlock Holmes of all people … He was just lucky there hadn’t been a crime scene since because it would only take one glance for Sherlock to know. God only knew what Sherlock would do with that information, though he certainly couldn’t take the piss given the impressive erection he’d got from having his arse smacked.

_Maybe the real question is, what would I want him to do?_

He pulled a face, cracked the lid off his third bottle and was about to take a sip when the doorbell rang. 

“Bollocks.” He put the bottle down and went to open the door where he found Sherlock looming wild-eyed in his doorway.

“You took your time. What if there’d been a murder?”

“Please,” said Greg, “tell me that you haven’t come round my flat to tell me you’ve found yourself a murder.”

“Unfortunately not,” said Sherlock, looking both serious and uncomfortable. “This is personal.”

Greg felt his stomach sink. “Oh no. No, definitely not.”

Sherlock raked him over with a searching glance. “Hm. Interesting.”

“No, Sherlock,” said Greg with his most authoritative voice, “Go home.” Greg stepped back and raised his hand to shut the door.

“Wait!”

Sherlock rummaged in one of his pockets before thrusting a handful of plastic cards at Greg, who took the bundle from Sherlock’s outstretched hand and flicked through. 

“These are – these are my bloody warrant cards!”

“Yes,” said Sherlock patiently. “They’re a gift.” He stared intensely at Greg for a couple of seconds before frowning. “Funny - I’d have thought having a tiny brain would make it quicker to make up your mind.”

“Oh, of course I’m going to let you in with sweet talk like that.”

Sherlock scowled. “Fine. You’re not the least competent Detective Inspector it has been my misfortune to encounter. May I come in now?”

“Be still my beating heart,” muttered Greg as he stood back to let Sherlock march through his flat to the living room. He took the opportunity to give Sherlock a once-over as he went past and was dismayed to find that the appeal of his arse had not diminished even slightly.

_Oh, I am so very fucked._

He shut the front door and walked back in to find Sherlock lounging at one end of the large leather sofa and looking round the living room. Greg braced himself for a barrage of painful observations. When no such comments were forthcoming, Greg gingerly sat down at the other end of the sofa.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked carefully. 

“I thought I might try fellating you.” 

“Well, you’ve had worse ideas.” Greg looked round for his beer before replying. “Two questions, and be honest.” 

Sherlock nodded.

“Why? And would you rather be doing this with John?” 

“Because I want to. The idea is … appealing.”

Greg’s mouth went dry as Sherlock’s voice dropped an improbable half-octave on that last word.

“And no,” continued Sherlock, “John’s my _friend_.”

“I’m not sure that word means the same to you as it does to other people.”

Sherlock’s lips curved up in an oddly pensive smile. “I suspect very few do.”

Greg took a long swallow of beer as he thought about Sherlock’s offer. Whatever Sherlock’s other motives, he did at least seem to want this (and so did Greg, if he was being honest with himself). After the past couple of years, when sex had been a battleground for a hundred other issues, the idea of connecting with someone out of genuine desire was blindingly beautiful.

“Alright,” he said at last.

Sherlock beamed and reached for Greg’s crotch.

“Hang on a minute!” said Greg, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist.

“You said alright.”

“That doesn’t mean you can just … dive straight in.”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared. “You do realise that I don’t require romance?”

“You can say that again,” said Greg, conscious that Sherlock’s hand was still only a couple of inches away from his groin. “But believe it or not, not everything’s about you. Kiss me.“

Sherlock eyes darted across Greg’s face. “Why?”

“Because you’re not getting any further if you don’t.”

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes with a put-upon look. Still keeping a firm hold on Sherlock’s grabby hand, Greg caught Sherlock’s jaw with his free hand and kissed him gently.

It was … nice. Sherlock’s lips were soft and pliant, and his freshly-shaven skin was smooth. Greg pushed his hand back up into thick, coarse hair. Sherlock made a quiet sound and opened his mouth, and Greg suddenly remembered what all the fuss was about.

Their tongues slid lazily, almost accidentally, together, sending an electric jolt straight down to his balls. Sherlock splayed his free hand warmly across the top of Greg’s thigh and leant in, licking his way around Greg’s mouth in a way that would have seemed dispassionate if it wasn’t for the racing pulse he could feel under his thumbs, throbbing at throat and wrist. Greg stayed still and let Sherlock explore, then tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hair until a soft moan broke free.

“Alright,” he said quietly into Sherlock’s ear as he let go of his wrist.

Sherlock slid to the floor, insinuated himself between Greg’s knees, undid belt and zip briskly and curled his fingers under the waistband of Greg’s pants.

“Lift,” he commanded without looking up. Greg obliged, and Sherlock promptly tugged trousers and pants down to his ankles before resting his hands on Greg’s thighs and leaning in to stare at his erect cock with naked fascination.

“Shall I leave you two alone?”

Sherlock ignored him and leaned in to give the head an exploratory lick. He pulled a thoughtful face, licked again and looked annoyed when it bobbed away. He wrapped one hand firmly round the base, paused a moment, wrapped his lips tightly round the head, then sank his mouth the entire way down the shaft in one impossibly smooth swallow.

“Fuck!”

Sherlock’s throat was almost painfully tight. Greg groaned and spread his arms along the back of the sofa, digging his fingers to stop himself from grabbing impatiently, and looked down at the curly mop of hair bobbing vigorously back and forth.

It was like being sucked off by a milking machine, or a sword swallower on a schedule; not at all like the way Sherlock had kissed him, all slow need and reverent hunger. Greg spared a moment to be grateful to the men and women who’d taken the time to teach him the subtleties of touching another body. Sherlock might not be looking for romance, but Greg could at least give him this.

“Hey,” he said awkwardly. When there was no response he tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair again and pulled firmly enough to make him pay attention.

Sherlock reluctantly pulled off and _oh_ , did the expression on his face make Greg glad that he’d stopped things for a moment. Sherlock had the furious, frustrated expression of a teenager discovering for the first time that they couldn’t be brilliant at everything straight away. 

“Hey,” he said again, tugging lightly. Sherlock’s eyes darkened at that as he took in a hiss of breath, and Greg swallowed before removing his hand. “Are you enjoying this?”

“Yes.”

“Really,” said Greg, unconvinced. “Prove it.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at that and Greg half-thought he’d leave. Instead he sat back on his heels, reached down to slowly unzip his flies (showing that he hadn’t bothered with underwear), and carefully eased out his rock-hard erection.

Greg exhaled in a rush as Sherlock stroked himself languidly, maintaining eye contact all the time. His mouth watered and he realised he was half-hard again. 

He also remembered that Sherlock made up in observation skills for everything he lacked in ability to take criticism. “Stand up,” he found himself saying, “take the rest of your clothes off and go into my bedroom.”

Sherlock stripped unhurriedly and dropped his clothes on the floor. His mouth was half-curved in a slight smile and he was looking at Greg with the interest he normally reserved for particularly clever murderers. “And why’s that?”

“Because I think I’d better show you how it’s done.”

………………………..

Greg stepped out of his trousers and pants and pulled his vest over his head before following Sherlock, who he found standing just inside the bedroom looking around the sparsely furnished room. He was suddenly aware of just how pathetic his bare bachelor flat was (not to mention his own aging body). “Look, take it or leave it,” he said defensively.

Sherlock looked at Greg in surprise before sinking carelessly down onto the bed. 

“It’ll do,” he said, leaning back on his elbows with a half-smile. 

Greg would have hated Sherlock in that moment for his complete lack of self-consciousness, but he was looking at Greg’s middle-aged body as if it was something paying attention to and _fuck_ , it had been a long time since anyone had done that. He sat down heavily on the mattress, leant over, caught one hand under Sherlock’s chin and kissed him hard. Sherlock kissed back hungrily and they were both panting by the time they broke apart. 

Sherlock swung his legs up onto the bed and shuffled across to make space for Greg without being asked. Greg lay down on his side so that his head was next to Sherlock’s hips and folded his trapped arm under his head to act as a pillow. He then reached over and pulled at Sherlock’s hip to roll him over onto his side.

“Efficient,” was all Sherlock said when he rolled over and found Greg’s erection bobbing in his face.

“Shh,” said Greg as he stroked an exploratory hand round Sherlock’s balls before hefting the warm weight of his cock in his hand as he got the lay of the land (so to speak). “Watch and learn.” With that he moved his hand back to Sherlock’s hip, leant forward and wrapped his lips around the plump head.

Sherlock’s silent jolt forward was halted by Greg’s firm grip on his hip. When Sherlock had stilled Greg slowly moved his lips the rest of the way down his lovely warm cock, hollowing his cheeks and breathing in greedily as he went.

_Christ_ , that made his mouth water. The taste of pre-come on his tongue made him feel like a horny teenager again, smoking weed with his best mate and sucking each other’s cocks out in the woods (they’d said it wasn’t gay if you were high, but looking back he couldn’t exactly say it was the most heterosexual thing he’d ever done). There’d been a couple of blokes since, but none that had made him feel as keen as he did now.

Greg luxuriated in slow, indulgent sucks, pleased to find that his previous expertise hadn’t been lost. He showed off, bobbing his head back and forth, flicking his tongue over the frenulum, and swallowing moans round the thick shaft.

“You’ve done this before,” said Sherlock, breathing heavily.

Greg brought his hand down to stroke Sherlock’s balls – it was an awkward angle, but worth it for the strangled sound Sherlock made.

“ _Hng_ … there’s something else though, something you’re not …. Oh, Lestrade. You didn’t mention that you used to get _high_.”

Sherlock’s deep laugh vibrated down through his body until Greg slapped his arse – not hard, but enough to show he meant it. Sherlock’s laugh cut off with a sharp intake of breath and his cock twitched on Greg’s tongue, so he did it again. This time he was rewarded with a long shuddering exhale.

Reluctantly, Greg pulled off for a moment. “Feel free to join in any time,” he said. “If you think you’re up to it, that is.”

Greg didn’t have to look at Sherlock’s face to see the insulted expression on his face. He barely had time to draw breath before his cockhead was enveloped by Sherlock’s plump wet lips. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself before settling back to the task at hand.

He’d thought going down on Sherlock was arousing, but it was nothing compared to this. Sherlock had put his minutes of observation to good use and he sucked with all the skill Greg had shown earlier, matching every movement stroke for stroke so that it was as if Greg was sucking himself off. His self-restraint shattered and he took Sherlock as deep and fast as he could manage, which Sherlock copied until they were fucking each other’s mouths with abandon, grunting and sloppy with their noses pressed up so hard against each other’s balls that they struggled to gasp breaths in between thrusts.

Sherlock was the first to break. Without warning his entire body jolted as if he’d been electrocuted, and he came with a low groan into Greg’s willing mouth as Greg swallowed noisily round Sherlock’s pulsing cock. As soon as he’d finished he took Greg all the way down and the squeeze of his throat pushed Greg over the edge. He came with a grunt as his orgasm exploded through his body from his balls to his knees, leaving him weak and empty when it subsided.

He rolled onto his back and panted. Sherlock did the same. Their breathing slowed together as they lay there, touching only where Greg’s arm rested against Sherlock’s damp thigh.

Greg closed his eyes, just for a moment, and heard the bed creak as Sherlock sat up.

“You don’t have to dash off, you know.”

There was a pause before Sherlock climbed off the bed.

“Obviously.”

Greg snorted. There was a faint answering rumble of laughter from the direction of the bathroom, followed a few minutes later by rushing water. Greg yawned, pulled the duvet over him to keep warm while he waited, and promptly fell asleep.

.......................

John trailed his fingers up the banisters as he drifted up the stairs and into 221B.

“Oh good, you’re back,” said Sherlock who was sat on the sofa staring at an array of files spread out on the coffee-table.

“Mm,” said John vaguely, licking his lips. He could still taste the caramel.

Sherlock looked up and pulled a face. “For god’s sake – in the back of his car? Really?”

“Yep,” said John contentedly. “Twice.” He collapsed into his chair and wriggled his toes to check that they still worked. When Mycroft Holmes wined and dined a bloke, he did it properly. “I am feeling very relaxed right now.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, stood up, stalked across the room and started examining John’s scalp.

“Oi!” said John, batting ineffectually at Sherlock’s nosy hands.

“I’m checking for head trauma.”

“Yes, well stop it.” John finally managed to capture Sherlock’s wrists in an awkward hold above his head. “It was a date, not a boxing match.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Then how do you explain the bruise on the top of your head?”

John thought back to the second round of shagging. He’d been naked from the waist down and looking at Big Ben out of the car’s back window as he unashamedly bounced on Mycroft’s fat cock in time with the ten o’clock chimes, while beneath him Mycroft had been sweaty and silent in his three-piece suit, his trousers pulled down just enough to give John access. When the clock had struck ten he’d given a particularly rough thrust upwards and John’s head had met the roof of the car.

“Oh yes.” John valiantly refused to blush. “I might have hit my head a little bit.”

Sherlock shuddered as he stepped away. “Are you in a fit state for a stake-out?”

“Of course,” said John as he gradually woke up from his pleasurable daze. His eyes focussed on the police files and he frowned. “Where did you get those?”

“Lestrade.”

“I hope you didn’t break into his flat while he was asleep.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Sherlock as he pulled his coat on and patted the pockets. “Have you seen my lock-picks?”

“Desk drawer,” said John automatically as a horrible suspicion formed in his mind. “Oh god. Please tell me that you didn’t shag him then run off with his files.”

Sherlock was suspiciously silent as he fiddled with his desk.

John groaned. “Did you at least leave a note?”

“Of course.” Sherlock strode past John and down the stairs. 

John locked the door behind him and followed Sherlock downstairs and onto the street. He was still slightly dazed from all the sex with Mycroft and the stunning revelation that Sherlock had actually got laid, so it wasn’t until they got in the cab that he spared a thought to hope that it had at least been a nice note.

………………..

Greg yawned himself awake early the next morning and was momentarily confused to find himself naked and at the foot of the bed. He sat up, remembered how he’d got there, and swore.

_I shagged Sherlock. Right. This is probably going to cause a bit of trou – shit, the case files!_

Greg leapt out of bed and ran to the living room, where he skidded to a stop. The coffee table was horribly, predictably empty.

His phone beeped.

_Files at Baker Street and will be solved by the time you read this. Feel free to express your gratitude in person any time from 8pm onwards. SH_

The doorbell rang as soon as he’d finished reading the message. Greg pulled his trousers on and opened his front door to find a short man in a hoodie and ripped jeans standing there, nodding his head to some unheard beat and holding a bulging plastic bag which he thrust at Greg when he opened the door.

“You Lestrade?”

Greg blinked. “What’s this?” 

The man flicked his gaze down at the bag then frowned at Greg. “Fruit. Melons an’ shit.” He gave Greg a pitying look.

Greg didn’t move. The man sighed. “From Mr ‘Olmes.”

“Of course it is.” Greg took the bag and the man nodded and walked off. Greg went back inside and picked up his phone to find that another message had appeared.

_Preliminary research indicates grapes, melons, mangos, apples, pineapple likely to improve taste of semen. SH_

Greg couldn’t help admiring the sheer bloody cheek of the man, then remembered that was what had got him into trouble in the first place. He took the bag of fruit into the kitchen and started making himself a cup of tea while trying to decide whether he should arrest Sherlock for nicking evidence or shag him again.

He got as far as fishing the teabag out of his mug before he remembered with a pang of despair that there wasn’t any milk in the fridge. His phone beeped again.

_There’s a pint of semi-skimmed in the bag. SH_

Holding his breath, Greg rooted around in the bag until his fingers closed on a familiar plastic shape. He pulled it out and held it reverently before screwing the top off and pouring a dash into his tea. With the first sip his head cleared, his body warmed, and the world seemed a little brighter.

Perhaps, on consideration, he wouldn’t arrest Sherlock just yet.

And he’d been meaning to eat more fruit anyway.


End file.
